


“I don’t exactly have the best home life.”

by MaxTheMemelord



Category: I Am Not Okay with This (TV 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Drug Use, Homophobia, Hurt No Comfort, MEGA TW, READ THE TAGS I BEG OF YOU, Stan’s dad is an asshole, Weed, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23050582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxTheMemelord/pseuds/MaxTheMemelord
Summary: READ THE TAGS FOR TWSStanley Barber is a closeted homosexual, and his father is a prick. There’s not much else I can say, except that he deserves so much better.
Relationships: Definitely not Stanley Barber & his dad
Comments: 2
Kudos: 85





	“I don’t exactly have the best home life.”

Stanley tried to close the door as quietly as he possibly could, but it still creaked. Thoughts filled his brain and swirled around at a million miles a hour, while the sound of the TV playing reruns of the football game filled his ears, and although it was muffled, it felt deafening.

Clutching the inside of baby blue suit sleeve and pulling his arm up, closer to his slender frame with his left hand, using his right to prop himself up against the beige wall.

Bracing himself, he walked into the living room, knowing it was the only way he could get to his room. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, his fists tensing at his sides.

Slowly, yet cautiously, Stanley opened his eyes to see the living room couch empty, the TV on, the beer bottles, stacked up against one another on the coffee table that seemed to double on numbers every time he arrived home was sitting there, stationary.

Taking a few cautious steps forward, he glanced to the TV remote, knocked to the floor, next to a tipped over can of beer. Sombrely, he thought to himself that the stain probably was an improvement on the current colour of carpet, its hue a moldy brown.

Kicking his shoes off, and then picking them up with his right hand, Stanley continued through the house. It was eerily silent, considering his father’s truck was in the garage, and all of the lights were on. Bar the noise of the annoying reporter covering the sports game, of course. But it only really added to the atmosphere.

Stanley continued forward, shrugging the coat off his shoulders and hanging it over a chair in the dining room, and then placing his shoes at the back door. Using his free hand, he ran his fingers through his messy dark brown locks of hair, and he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. Maybe, just maybe, tonight he was safe.

Letting a smile creep onto his face, he continued downstairs to his room, only to stop dead in his tracks. 

His father was standing there, clutching a magazine, rage flowing through every fibre of his being. He turned around, his greasy hair lagging behind him. Before he spoke, he rubbed the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Care to explain what THIS is, Stanley?” His father held out the magazine, and Stanley felt his gut drop. In his hands, there was a porno magazine. And that would probably have been fine with his father, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the magazine was filled with hot men.

Stanley felt his face drop its feeble smile, and as he tried to speak, all that came out of his mouth was a gasp, and a stumbling mess of words.

“ANSWER ME!” Stanley flinched and felt his fists clench.

“I.. um.. dad- I.. it’s.. um..” He was cut off by his father tossing the magazine directly into the smaller boy’s face. He stumbled up the stairs, and fell backwards, tripping on his own feet.

“Who would have thought it. My own boy, a dirty, little queer.” His words felt cold, and still, but Stanley could sense the anger bubbling below the surface as the man approached him.

“Dad- please!” Yet again, he was cut off, but this time not with words, or the throwing of a magazine. This time, it was his father’s fist crashing into his face.

Falling back, he crawled desperately to get away from the man, and he hit his back on the wall. Feebly, he raised his arms above his face, trying to protect himself the best he could through the tears and the shaking. 

Punch after punch after kick after punch, the pain became a flurry of hurt and Stanley felt himself losing his grip on time itself as he lay there in fetal position, halfway up the stairs, getting kicked repeatedly by his own father.

As kicks faded away and sobs turned into whimpers, Stan uncurled himself slowly and opened his rapidly swelling eyes. His dad was nowhere to be seen, and from the distance, over the sounds of the TV, he could hear the sound of the truck driving off into the distance, down the street, and the garage door closing.

Forcing himself to sit up, and then stand up was the hardest thing about these situations. When Stanley’s dad does this, Stan just wants to lay there and die, accept defeat. But something inside him makes sure he stays kicking, at least, until his father starts kicking, that is.

Stan doesn’t like the cleaning up process. First, after he’s stood up, he goes to the bathroom and showers, assessing his injuries all the while. Then he gets changed into different clothes, and if need be, he applies bandages, or ice packets, or anything, really, to stop it from hurting so much.

Alas, no amount of medical care would heal the wounds inside of him. Nothing hurts more than knowing your own father hates you enough to beat you every time you’re both home at the same time.

Oh well, weed will have to do. That’s what Stan thinks, anyway, as he lights a blunt and smokes it.

He slowly walks outside, after his routine is complete. He’s showered, changed, and cleaned up his injuries, and now he’s smoking a blunt, sitting on his roof, perched as if he was a bird.

Stanley lets his eyes flutter closed as he feels the sun come up on his skin. He must’ve been lying on the stairs for longer than he thought, because Stan could’ve sworn he’d only gotten home just before midnight.

It was either the beating, or the weed, or a combination of the two, Stan decided.

As he stared out at the rising sun, only one thought could cross his mind.

“Maybe tomorrow it’ll be better. Maybe tomorrow he won’t be home. Maybe next time I won’t be so careless.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am so unbelievably sorry, I was going to make this hurt/comfort but I couldn’t find a way to tie it into the story comfortably, so you guys are stuck with hurt :)


End file.
